Uzumaki Genesis
by skepsis66
Summary: "Kushina is horrified to find herself resisting the urge to squeeze, since sometimes you must be cruel to be kind and what would the world do to a mute jinchuuriki?" ... In one breath, the world of Naruto is irrevocably changed. AU.
1. Prologue: Shatter

**UZUMAKI GENESIS**

skepsis66

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Naruto and all associated characters, apart from occasional OCs, belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

Summary_: _"And Kushina is horrified to find herself resisting the urge to _squeeze..._ since sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind and what would the world do to a mute jinchuuriki?" In one breath, the world of Naruto is irrevocably changed. Come, it's a journey of a lifetime...

* * *

_**= Prologue: Shatter**_ =

* * *

"Uzumaki-san! Uzumaki-san! Can you hear me Uzumaki-san?"

She hears urgent cries of her name. They're so loud, right next to her ears – how can she not hear their bellowing? Irritation threads through her – she wants them all to disappear. Vanish with a _Shunshin_ and a swirl of leaves. It's easy, isn't it? They're shinobi, aren't they? Mission over heart – god knows she shouldn't be a priority on this day with Death scorching a path to Konoha's front gates. Hands, clammy and grabbing, appear in her vision. Annoying voices from jostling figures. She thinks she hallucinates Takeshi, the foul-mouthed brat. What's he doing here? She swats at reaching hands ineffectually. A feeble effort – ignored. Couldn't they just leave her be?

"Hold on, Kushina-sensei! You there, girl – get me some anaesthesia!"

Muscles spasm, contorting, twisting with strain. Then, the pain. Oh God, the pain. She grits her teeth, grinds them as if she's turning rock to dust. A helpless growl escapes regardless, curling into the air before she can swallow it. An upward twitch of her lips – she must look a vision of beauty. She hates it. She hates this. She hates everyone, and every noise, and every detail and colour and thing under the Sun. Just – a moment of madness, temporary (perfect) insanity to deal with the stress. She hopes it's curable.

"No more? What do you mean there's no more?! But it's only… _God_, this is… Okay. You know what? Fine. Fucking fox comes along and everything goes to hell in a hand-basket. Do what you –"

"– will. You'll pull through this, you hear me, Uzumaki? You're one tough bitch. Don't quit –"

"– now? Of course _right_ _now_, what else do you think I… oh, s_hit_. If it's not one problem with you it's another. Heartbeat's starting to go real crazy and she's losing a lotta blood! Oi - some warm water and _clean _towels, on the double! Yeah, that's – "

"– it, Uzumaki-san. Keep pushing… very good. _Hush_,Takeshi-san, and watch your language. Now hand me that towel. Uzumaki-san, please continue pushing. We'll be helping you in every way that we can. There's still a ways to –"

"– go! Hurry _up_. She's losing blood too fast! I can't, we can't let her _die_. They'll have our fucking heads. Dammit sensei! You, not another word – there ain't nothing wrong with my _language_. Don't tell me to –"

"– _breathe_, Uzumaki. I know you'll feel stupid if you die 'cause you forgot you had lungs. Still, you're doing pretty damn–"

"– great. Just what I fucking need. Can't you see I'm busy trying to save Kushina? I _said_ get some more water, quick! You _incompetent_ – "

"– woman. You're so brave. Takeshi-san, relax, you're disturbing Uzumaki-san. Plus, that poor girl over there looks like she's about to burst into tears. Be a little more considerate, won't you?"

Words bleeding into the next. Paltry reassurance on top of worthless attempts at comfort. People say the same things every time, don't they? At least Takeshi's not so bad – his swearing puts her more at ease than anything else. Her violent, skinny, little student. A medic of all things. She's inordinately proud, though he deserves a cuff over the ears for making that girl cry. She can almost taste his frenzied desperation and guilt washes over her as he clamps his hand over hers. She gives it a squeeze – the best she can do now. The potent mix of light-headedness and pain robs her of speech.

She's not gone enough to mistake the gruffness that is Ibiki. She almost barks a laugh. He has the oddest sense of timing for team bonding. They're a half of a whole, cranking the rusty machine. The third wheel's long gone (streaked red and dead and six feet under). With effort, she manages to recall a boyish figure and serious brown eyes, but the name escapes her. Akio-sensei's been fried to a crisp last she'd heard. Somehow, she gets the feeling that the demon wouldn't care either way. Straining, she turns her head to Ibiki. He's sad behind that tough interrogator face and she's too tired to dredge up a smile for the soon to be last-one-left. He understands though, because he's Ibiki and she's Kushina and they're a half of a whole.

Slivers of pain slice through her and she feels weak, weak, _weak_. She cannot stop the trembling, the knee-jerk reactions, is no longer the master of her own body. It's terrifying. She doesn't want to be here where her hands shred stained sheets in lieu of white throats. It's unnatural.

_Stupid medics. Stupid hospital._ She thinks she hears a laugh in the back of her head.

She has a death grip on Takeshi's hand. Her eyes are fixed on Ibiki's hunched figure. She hates it that they have to see her like this, gasping for breath and half-delirious with pain. She hates the expressions on their faces. And in a flurry of senselessness, she wants so many things – to hold them tight and never let go, to speak with them one last time, to cry, to yell at them to get their butt-ugly heads out of her sight because she doesn't need reminders of what she is leaving behind. But such words never came easily to her and genuine demonstrations of affection had always left her feeling awkward. Her pride refuses her tears and she is afraid that if she opens her mouth, only screams will erupt from her throat.

Uzumaki Kushina would sooner tear out her own throat than let any person hear her scream.

_My, my, what violence_. Amusement abound. Delirium is unexpectedly articulate.

_Shut up!_ Scathing rejoinders are too hard to think of. And no, she did not just retort to a voice in her head.

She arches her back and pushes, body cresting another wave of agony. And if this isn't torture she doesn't know what is. There's a terrible clawing at her insides, as if a rabid tiger is ripping and slashing its way out of her. Imagine: tendons snapping, flesh tearing as she heaves and sweats and swears six ways to Sunday. Madness lazes beside her, flicking at her shell-shocked senses. Kushina's all long-limbed craziness and her mind feels like it's flittering on/off on/off. And there's Insanity waving at her from a smiling face, gleaming and bright and oh so welcoming…

x x x

– _An Excusable Interlude – _

_Crackling. A polite hem-hem of a cough. Then, a voice (like the one in her head, just a minute/second/hour ago)._

"_Greetings from the staff of the Madness Express, customised, as we are sure you know, for one Uzumaki Kushina. Gender: Female. Occupation: Shinobi. Age: Does it matter? Destination: Insanity, Oblivion, or whatever else you want to call it." _

_The shuffling of paper. A clearing of a throat in preparation of a routine recital._

"_Although it may have escaped your notice, it has been a smooth ride so far, with the train steadily gaining momentum the closer we get to our destination. However, we have run into an unexpected obstacle are sincerely sorry to inform you that this train has just been derailed. We extend our heartfelt apologies to you for any confusion this event may have caused. However, we are in no way confessing our culpability in regards to this, admittedly, rather common occurrence. It is, after all, the passenger who determines the fate of their train and humans tend to change their minds quite a lot, we've noticed." _

_The voice is unexpectedly cheerful and she knows she's going (gone) mad._

"_Well, as you may have finally gathered, Insanity does not seem to be your cup of tea any longer. What a dreadful shame. But it isn't something to throw a tantrum over – we always say that derailment is just another road to Damascus. There's more than one way to Eden and it always helps to remember that 'X' marks the spot. Better get going then – lots more passengers to send on their way. Business is really booming in your Village at the moment. Perhaps we'll see you some other time. Until then,"_

_Static…_

x x x

Reality wavers, then snaps back into motion. The infernal train is gone.

Colours swirl beneath her eyelids, replacing the grey. Kushina feels crazed, thrown for a loop. The thought teases a gurgle of humour from her mouth. She's still mad, mad, mad.

An insistent nudge from inside her reminds her where she is. It almost has her howling before she squashes the urge. Not so weak yet that she would forsake her pride. A mantra (block it all out, just _concentrate_): ignore the pain, ignore the pain, _ignore_ the goddamn pain! Squeezing her eyes shut, Kushina braces herself and _pushes_.

"That's it! You're almost there!"

She gulps in air, scrabbling for fleeing shreds of strength. Why does everyone have to sound so encouraging? She doesn't need their cheering. Takashi and Ibiki are absent – gone between her bouts of delirium. Necessary foxy cannon fodder, she assumes. Her heart hurts. Blasé just doesn't seem to cut it these days. They're sadistic bastards, leaving her here. Ibiki with his fucked up mind games, Takeshi the Irritable with his liberal paranoia. How did she ever get lumped in with those two? Burdens, both of them. She doesn't give a damn. Not even if they get fried into crisps like Akio-sensei.

_Of course not. 'Cause denial's the most attractive thing since Kyuubi, right? _Snickers.

_Is it unhealthy to want to beat yourself into a pulp? _

_Yep! _

_Shut. UP! Nobody's asking you! _Creativity is too taxing. At least there's no train to accompany the voice this time.

Fucking persistent baby.

The squirming sends her into another haze of pain. She swears vengeance on Minato for doing this to her. Kushina vows to rain down hell on that stupid, handsome face of his the moment he steps back through the doorway (and he would, he _has_ to). That is, if her teeth aren't fused together before then. Body convulsing, breath rattling like brittle skeletons in a cage. There's not enough pain relieving drugs for Mrs Preggers here. She needs enough to sink a battleship.

Why, _why_ did she let Minato talk her into this? The tiny bugger's fighting his way out into the world two weeks too early and fuck if it isn't the worst timing ever. She already knows, fondness blooming, that he's going to be a little rascal. She can almost see it, the foxy smiles and tongue-in-cheek attitude. Strong; he's been nothing if not persistent so far, struggling for his first lungful of ashen air. Still, never again – unless it's ten years down the track and she's armed with a bucket full of drugs.

"Uzumaki-san! The head's out, and now the shoulders too. Just a little more and you'll be done. Come on – heave ho!"

Heave… ho? She would have busted her guts any other day. What fantasy pirate world does that medic live in? Nevertheless, she curses and gives forth one last titanic effort. Blood roaring in her ears. Eyes seeing stars. Limbs shaking, hair prickling and teeth gnawing through her lips. She _heaves_. A sunburst of blinding _pain pain pain_ before –

- The hospital ceiling swims into vision.

She must have blacked out for a moment. Even now, she can hardly keep her eyes open. Still, she knows that she's been out a moment too long. She doesn't need her eyes to know that something is wrong.

Because Kushina has never experienced a silence so menacing.

There is no crying. There is no wailing, howling proof of existence, and yet it is so far from peaceful. She hazily scans the faces of the medic nins. They're grim and worried. Sad. Is that _pity _she sees? She glances past the dyed red sheets, her blood-smeared body, and there he is. A wiggling bundle of blanket-swaddled pink. Waving arms and kicking legs all in fine order. So small… awe infuses her being. He's hers (as much as she's his – there is no hesitation, no uncertainty). She brushes her fears aside and for a single, perfect, moment everything is right in the world.

Then, his tiny face turns towards her, just for a fraction of a second, and Kushina recognizes the sound of her heart breaking. Fragility is excruciating (where a second feels like a year feels like eternity). She would have wept if she was that sort of person.

Because there _is _crying. Eyes screwed shut, face scrunched and that mouth, opened as wide as the ocean, but issuing no sound. Screaming, crying out nothing – and, it's deafening.

_Defective_… her mind whispers.

She slaps the thought away, snarling. No child of hers was _defective_. But the not-mother part of her (ninja, weapon of war, hard and cruel and full of implacable _logic_) could not deny the truth of the thought. And she is too tired to dwell in denial. Too tired of this – of blurry sad/happy faces, of the baby, of waiting for Minato even though she knows he will not come. The room dives in and out of focus.

_Defective… _

Kushina has never felt so vulnerable in her life. Where is she? The tough little girl with the baggy boy-pants and flame-red hair and a flash-bang laugh. Ill-content in peace. Too obvious to be a ninja.

_Defective…_

But she proved them wrong, didn't she? The Red Death. Ranked borderline S-Class in the Bingo Book. Respected jounin of Konohagakure. Wife to Namikaze Minato. Proud mother to…

She numbly registers a medic placing the baby in her arms. Solid warmth against her cold pallor. Curious sky blue drinking in her face. Fists hungrily grabbing, mouth stretching in a yawn. A racing little heart beats against her erratic one.

Strong.

Amazing.

And Kushina is horrified to find herself resisting the urge to _squeeze _(so easily is another life erased) since sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind and what would the world do to a mute jinchuuriki?

Her eyes burn.

_Damn you Minato. _

Blackness is creeping across her vision and Kushina is desperate. But Death has come to collect and will not leave empty-handed.

A brush of lips across a forehead.

"Naruto… Uzumaki Naruto. Live fierce and proud, my son."

A rush of ferocious, consuming _feeling_.

Her son. _Naruto_.

Her beautiful, beautiful child.

Sky blue swallows her world.

_Here: this is the meaning of love._

x x x

_It is said that before the Sundering, there came a great manifestation of fire. Wreathed in the flames of hell, the mightiest of the Nine appeared upon the land's surface once more. Its shadow stretched far and wide; where once stood great nations, there were only ashes were remaining in the wake of its furious rampage. It's very presence spelled travesty and sorrow. Pure in its own corrupt manner, the Kyuubi was born and bred for the single purpose of chaos. It possessed a rage that would never be quelled and a thirst for destruction that would never be quenched. Not even by the life blood of a million million people._

_A seemingly unstoppable entity, a single swing of the Kyuubi's tails could topple mountains and birth tsunamis. One breath could scorch a nation. The earth and sky trembled with each leap it took. It was a being of enormous stature and never-ending strength. The people called the Kyuubi a herald of woe and so it was. Its chakra spoke of annihilation, sung stories of fierce immolation. It had existed far before the evidence of documented ninja history and would exist for eons more after its fall. But after each of its natural appearances, great turmoil would envelop the Elemental Countries and the Shinigami would reap the souls of millions. _

_It was not until the time of the Shodaime Hokage that the Kyuubi, King of the Bijuu, could be controlled… to a certain extent. _

x x x

Vivid red splays across septic white. So pretty and pale and limp on the hospital bed. Was it not for the litres of blood splattering around her form, it almost looks as if Kushina has simply fallen asleep. There is a peaceful expression on her face which he only recalls seeing a precious few times before. Honest faces like that do not belong on ninjas. Her hair is stark against her skin and though her eyes are closed, Minato's heart still skips a beat from imagining wild forest green. Kushina looks as beautiful now as she did the first time he saw her. Loud and proud and laughing gleefully at furious, paint-covered ninjas. He clenches his hands. He is too late the one time it matters.

Whether it was due to the awful stress of Kyuubi's materialisation or simply the result of misfortune, Kushina had gone into labour a month earlier than expected. Never had he thought that one month could make such a difference. Minato has never put faith in the belief that a life for a life is a fair exchange. Sacrifice is a most despicable word. Unavoidable with the violence in which ninjas dwell every day, teammates for days or months or years are ripped away in a single instant of carelessness. Boys and girls, men and women with families or without; they're all teammates to die for you ("_S-sensei, I… Obito… He, he's…"_). It had not taken long for him to see the truth – that sacrifice is synonymous with mountains of guilt and a lifetime of regrets.

Kushina's sacrifice is of a different kind. Devoid of gleaming steel and flashing fire, but as bloody as the expected scene of her death. And that is what pains him the most. He had expected her to live through her pregnancy, to raise her son from birth to adulthood, to die in a blaze of frenzied fighting, not to have her life seep out of her while thrashing helplessly on a metal bed. He feels barely capable of looking at her without crumbling to pieces at the foot of her bed. He feels the urge to run, to flee and leave everything behind, to throw himself into a ravine somewhere or dash his head against some rocks if only to forget that this day had ever happened.

A tentative medic places warmth in his arms even as he reaches out a hand to his dead wife. His heart falters, stuttering to a halt as he watches the bundle in his arms. Because Kushina had left him one last gift before her death. Small hands, pudgy in infancy, emerge from the blankets. He hardly dares to breathe as a small face peeks out from the bundle of soft fabric. He feels his arms trembling as he stares at a miniature replica of his own face. The baby wriggles and squirms, burrowing further into him as he stands stunned.

"His name is Naruto."

The medic's voice brings him back.

"U-Uzumaki-san named him before she…"

Something strange takes hold of him then. A bubble of something, welling and boiling up through him. His pulse quickens. His breaths come in gasps, hitching and shuddering, and when he cannot hold it back any longer, he lets the sudden, hysterical laughter rupture forth from his throat. It starts off a raspy noise, then louder and louder and louder until his ears ring from the sound. Head bowed, tears leaking. His whole body shakes from laughing and he is bending in double. He faintly registers the medic-nins standing stiffly at the back of the room, no doubt despairing for his sanity. They are all but screaming concern, projecting their worry through their wringing hands and wide eyes. His sides are aching, yet still, he laughs, lungs wheezing their protest as an unsettling feeling balls ever tighter in his chest. And when the laughter finally dies, he strides out into the corridor, baby in his arms.

Naruto… it is such a ridiculous name for a child. It has Kushina's signature scrawled all over it – perhaps her only claim to her son now since his image is a carbon-copy of Minato. It's strange – the stolen, infantile face gazing into his. He takes an unsteady breath as he realises what he must do – it is the reason for which he retrieved Naruto, after all. The resolution numbs his bones. His heart throbs big, bursting beats like the pounding of war drums. Child not hours old cradled against his chest, sweat-slicked hair coarse against his skin, feet weighing like lead against the ground. Because Namikaze Minato is Hokage first, is – _was_ – husband second and father third. Sky blue mirrors his eyes, and shame embraces him, refusing to leave.

There isn't enough time. There's never enough. He knows that it is very unlikely that any other infants born on this day are still alive. Half of the hospital is rubble – reduced to cracked cement and shattered glass with a swipe of Kyuubi's tails. The only reason why Naruto was not crushed was due to Kushina refusing to retreat to the hospital until she could no longer stand, injured and in labour, on the battlefield. Ironic that she died anyway. And as Hokage, the strongest ninja in the village, he had done nothing, could have done nothing to prevent it. The Will of Fire has never burned so brutally – his wife is dead and his child is as good as.

His manic, fragmented genius had birthed the Shiki Fuuin – perfection and desolation and _sacrifice_. It's an accomplishment to dwarf all others, a masterpiece of sealing. The Sandaime, the Professor, God of Shinobi he may be, cannot trump this; the culmination of desperation lashing his back and the grains of time snaking away through the cracking hourglass. An ache nurses his head as the remembrance of the Sandaime's frantic words sear into him. Understanding would take too long (nightmarish details twisting and spiralling) and the risk of error is too high. Devastation would be the only result.

He isn't naïve, blind belief obliterated by stained hands in fields of slaughter. Iwa choked any tattered shreds of naivety out of him. Minato knows how the seeds of massacre are sown. He knows he's planting enough to strangle the minds of every person who survives the devastation of Konohagakure. But better to condemn a single person (his child, _his own beloved child_) than the potential thousands. And although his heart roars its rebellion, he is bound with the inescapable shackles of duty.

There can be no replacement for Namikaze Minato.

The Yondaime takes up his banner of war.

x x x

"He's here! The Yondaime!"

Tired cheers filter though his ears.

"Yondaime-sama!"

"He's here to save us from the Kyuubi!"

"Just hold out until Yondaime-sama heads into combat!"

They breathe his name like a prayer.

He is the Kiroii no Senko. Slayer of foes. Man of unfathomable might.

Untouchable.

He cannot let anyone know that he is a second away from collapsing into a puddle of uselessness. His composure gives life to their struggles and hope to the weary. He wonders when he ceased to be Minato and became their God of War. Even his bratty little students view him with some degree of awe – seeing stoic, silver-haired Kakashi with that expression on his face for the first time made his guts churn. Kill one man, and you are a murderer; kill a million, you are a conqueror; kill them all… and you are a God. The world is a twisted place. Iwagakure gave rise to the genesis of his legend but such unquestionable reverence was not meant to be bestowed upon a single man.

His sandals tread red. Blood rains like water. Who knew Konoha could resonate Mizu so imperfectly? Bodies hit the Earth in a ritual ballet of death. His hands form seals instinctually. A lifetime of practice; a bare-fisted, jutsu-armed, weapon-lined dealer of death. One second, two, then –

"Gaki."

Billows of acrid smoke. Wary eyes survey the surroundings before nearly popping out at the sight.

A twist of his mouth.

"Yo Bunta. How are you?"

The toad gapes, spluttering.

"You summon me in the middle of Konoha with a gigantic fox kicking the shit out of all your ninjas and you ask me how I'm doing? You're mad. Gaki – wipe that smile off your face!"

Because, yes, that is a smile stretching his mouth. The impossibility of it all makes Minato dizzy. His body still remembers conditioned reactions even as the world immolates around him. He reiterates himself simply for the sake of it.

"So, Bunta, how are you?"

An incredulous glare. Then, a huff.

"Gaki."

Irritated fondness. Minato's eyes crinkle before seriousness overtakes his expression. His arms clutch Naruto tighter. The toad takes notice, eyes bulging at the blanket-swathed baby. A tiny, precious bundle, burgeoning with life. The child is calm in the middle of a storm, breathing in blood and ashes as if he was born to do so. Chaos is home and fire teases Minato's vision. He is trusting because his heart has not yet been betrayed. Recognizing the warmth of family and the feeling of safety, Naruto believes. It is instinct.

Minato has never felt sadder in his life.

Gamabunta takes one last puff on his pipe before reluctantly putting it away. The air is leaden as Minato lays one hand against his summon's front leg. It's like a pillar, cool beneath his fingers. Strong. He presses his forehead to the leathery skin and tries to will some of that strength into his being. He's cracking under the guilt and has drowned in the waters of grief. So he just wants a moment to piece all the fragments back together and to find himself again and to stop moping and not be afraid and there is so much to do and so little time and he really just needs to have a moment. _Pause_. Put the world on hold.

Invincibility is a mask he dons and it's getting harder to repair with every use.

He inhales, infusing his blood with courage. With (tainted) love and the Will of Fire. Because he is the Yondaime Hokage (not Namikaze Minato) and in his palms rest the fates of a thousand thousand people.

The cloak of burden weighs heavy on his shoulders. He cannot let them down. He will not, even if he must kill his heart to do it. Minato raises his head, determination etching lines onto the surface of his face. Failure is not an option, no matter what happens. His mind whispers of the fate of his sunshine child, bleak and terrible, but he shuts that thought away.

No matter what…

He looks up, eyes set. A sense of finality settles upon him.

"One last time, Bunta?"

Gamabunta's solemn gaze meets his own.

"Yeah. One last time."

Mianto vaults up his back, chakra releasing in clinging spurts, white cloak billowing. One last stand, like the heroes of old, stuffed full of drama and grandioso. It's not how he wants to be remembered. His dread builds as Gamabunta turns towards the tailed beast; the living, breathing manifestation of fire. The Kyuubi is as magnificent as it is destructive and Minato believes that Armegeddon has turned its restless gaze upon his village. His eyes are seared by the fiery, roaring rage of the fox and he wonders at the bravery (idiocy) of the ninja flinging themselves into the inferno, certain of their deaths.

"Oi, you have a plan Gaki?"

He laughs humourlessly. A plan?

"Of course – I'm not stupid. Just get me as close as you can to the Kyuubi. I'll do the rest."

"Be careful."

"I will."

Gamabunta's powerful muscles tense, bunching for a soaring leap towards Konoha's front gates. The wind stings his eyes and whips his hair. He hugs Naruto closer to his chest, infusing himself with sunlight and soul, shielding the fragile body with his own. A father now, pride bursting from the seams, about to leave his son an orphan. He doesn't believe he'll ever be forgiven for this. But it's worth it (it has to be) if it means bargaining a life for his son. No matter how tragic a life it will be.

The world has taken on a surrealistic cast. Bunta's massive sword cleaving through air and ash and fur as the Kyuubi howls its rage. Snarling, it swipes its tail, fire roaring into existence, barrelling towards the toad. Leaping aside, Bunta sends gouts of water at the fox, only for it to hiss into hot steam upon contact. Wickedly sharp claws gouge rifts into the Earth as the two titans battle at the gates of Konohagakure. Minato can only think of less than a dozen techniques that could do any significant damage to the vast being that is Kyuubi. Its healing factor alone would cancel out almost all the techniques in his arsenal – it had already healed the gaping wound from Bunta's sword.

The Kyuubi shrugs off the combined attack of a wind-fuelled typhoon of water with a hefty grunt of effort. It careens off to the side and tears fifty miles into the surrounding forest, uprooting trees and animals and humans. Fur standing on end, bone-white teeth gleaming, it leers at the human who dares to stand in its way.

"_A PATHETIC EFFORT, HUMAN! DO YOU THINK THAT SUCH A WEAK ATTACK COULD STOP ME?" _

It laughs. The malicious sound shaking Minato's bones. The weight of the Kyuubi's chakra presses in on his ribs, smothering and suffocating. It illuminates the spectre of the nine-tailed fox in a terrifying red glow as it deals death and destruction. Shouts echo distantly in his ears. Collateral damage, he thinks mechanically.

"The Kyuubi's not a walk in the park Minato! I can't keep this up for much – "

Gamabunta is cut off. He flings himself to the side and barely avoids a lightning fast claw – stepping straight into the path of a fiery tail. He yowls in agony as it carves through an eye, leaving an oozing mess behind. The fox roars its triumph, fire dancing around its form.

"_IS THAT THE BEST THAT YOU CAN DO?!"_

Minato crouches, heart in his throat.

"Not close enough Bunta! I need to be within a certain distance to – "

The toad snarls angrily, but obliges him. He leaps, charging in a frontal attack. The Kyuubi watches them gleefully.

"At this rate we're going to get ourselves killed, Gaki!"

"And here I was thinking I would die from drinking you under the table."

A bellow of laughter. "Smart-arse!"

And suddenly they are close enough. Minato can feel his skin burning from lashes of red chakra. He is swallowing lungfuls of burning breath, listening to the blood-thirsty growls coming from Kyuubi's chest. Fingers flying into the seals that are, by now, engraved into his mind. Brow furrowing in concentration. Sweat dripping. Every nerve inside of him aching for reprieve as all his chakra is drained into one single technique. A single technique that would save all of Konoha in exchange for his pitiful life… and his son's. He barely registers the crunch of Bunta's blade biting into Kyuubi's shoulder and the cheering of his shinobi as he slams his fingers into his son's tattooed stomach.

"SHIKI FUUIN!"

His body convulses as the immense stores of chakra he had gathered rushes out of him. His hand is blazing and a chill settles over his skin. He can feel the vast void behind him as surely as the light is draining out of his eyes. The presence of nothing announces itself as clearly as anything he has ever felt. Minato knows that it's the Shinigami standing at his back, called here by his technique, to fulfil this contract. A grin flickers across his face as the Kyuubi freezes in place, horrified realization dawning on the creature as to what the puny human has just accomplished.

"_YOU IMPUDENT HUMAN – DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!"_

The Kyuubi is boiling with anger. It roars its discontent to the sky, chakra overflowing with hate and resistance. It refuses to live out the rest of its days in confinement! It had heard of its brethren, trapped with seals of mortal make – forever doomed to exist in vessels far inferior to their full manifestations. Never did the fox believe that such a fate would befall it. The greatest of the nine, defeated by a mere human? Impossible! But with a last, earth-shattering howl of fury, the King of the Bijuu vanishes into the seal. For even the might of demons cannot compare to the Shinigami's power.

In the wake of Kyuubi's fall, he is gently lowered onto the ground by Gamabunta's webbed hand. The toad gives him a final salute before disappearing back to the summons' realm. Konohagakure's greatest victory is Minato's greatest defeat. Naruto is still clutched tightly to his chest. He gazes at his only son, beloved for but a scant few hours. It is done – Naruto is the jinchuuriki of the most powerful Bijuu to have ever existed. There's a divide between them now, birthed by duty and circumstance. He cannot look at his son without choking with guilt. He thinks it is strange how silent the child has been throughout the harrowing ordeal, but he can barely keep his eyes open, let alone think. The icy hands of the Shinigami are reaching through his chest to grasp his soul.

He feels alone. Hokage and hero, prestige and power – he is so far above the rest that his dreams are of mediocrity. A view from a splintered mirror: once you walk down that path of sweat, blood, tears and _sacrifice_, there is no going back. Minato is too broken (heart screaming _Kushina Naruto Kushina_) to be bitter and regrets belong to those without conviction. And though he is drowning in despair and being chased by shame, he cannot pretend to be surprised. Because disillusionment came long ago (father slain and mother ripped to pieces) and really, how could he have ever believed that his end would be anything but this?

Minato smiles.

_This is the way the world ends: _

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

* * *

**A/N: **Just to acknowledge some of the wonderful quotes I used in this chapter.

_"Kill a man, one is a murderer; kill a million, a conqueror; kill them all, a God." – Jean Rostand_

_"This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper." – T. S. Eliot_

**Prologue complete! Good, bad? Hopefully not too melodramatic lol. Reviews are abundantly appreciated, as is constructive criticism!**

**I'm crossing my fingers that this will turn out to be a multi-chaptered fic. Wish me luck!**


	2. Chapter 1: Formative I

**UZUMAKI GENESIS**

skepsis66

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Naruto and all associated characters, apart from occasional OCs, belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

* * *

_**= Chapter One: Formative I **_=

* * *

"The first reaction to truth is hatred."

~ Tertullian

* * *

There's this sensation that has been with Naruto his whole life, for as long as he could remember. He finds it hard to describe, and struggles to understand the reasons behind it all. There are brief moments during the day when the feeling recedes, but it has never failed to return. When it is weak, Naruto hardly notices it at all. Were it not for that distinctive heaviness resting on his shoulders, he wouldn't have known it was there. He is accustomed to it – an invisible companion for a lonely boy. It's as normal as ink on paper. There's a vague sense of discomfort like clothes on sweat-dampened skin. Unnerving, but he deals.

When it is strong, wisps of blond hair stand warily to attention. Goosebumps crawl up his arm. There are chills on hot summer days, when the wind is as fire and the clouds are leagues away. It gets harder to breathe, as if razor-thin gauze has covered his mouth to harvest his every lungful of air. Beads of sweat condense at the back of his neck and in the small of his back. It's an uncomfortable feeling; painful, even. It hurts like being dunked in hot oil, but not quite. It scalds on the inside and the burns from it don't vanish the next day.

It's an effort to ignore it on the bad days, which is every other day.

Over time, Naruto has come to learn that he's different. Although he did not and still does not understand why he is different, the hows didn't take him long to figure out. He is different in the way that as far as he knows, he's the only one who feels this sensation. It's the weight in the staring, the sneering and swearing, the starving and the stabbing. He is different in the way that people are scared of him and shy away from him even though he's half their height and not even a quarter their weight. He is different in the way that the matron slaps rather than holds his hand, that stray dogs snarl whenever he's near, that people can make sounds from their mouths while he can't.

And so, though he knows the how, he doesn't really want to know the reasons why. It's bound to be painful and Naruto doesn't need any more pain.

Naruto wakes up before the other boys and girls at the orphanage. Quiet seeps into the building overnight and makes its home in the in-between places. In another hour, the orphanage would wake, echoing with chatter and sounds. He feels strangely light in the mornings, when nobody is around. He blinks into the darkness of his closet, small but warm. He knows this space intimately; the mouldy back-right corner, the eyehole below the left door handle, the loose board under which it was best to hide scavenged food, the blood from the beating last week.

This is solely his time of day: threadbare blankets around his form, breathing mustiness in a closet that is not quite home.

He is the last to be served breakfast. The matron lady pours slop into his cracked breakfast bowl (smaller than the other children's) and gives him one minute to eat. She stands behind him like a spectre of ill-will and distastefully surveys his table manners. She tuts and sneers and whacks his hand with a wooden spoon, disdain colouring her features. Nobody had taught him the proper way to eat in the first place but he's not so stupid as to bring it up, that is, if he could. He falls upon the bowl like a feral animal, but he's sometimes too slow and she snatches the bowl away with a mean look in her eyes. She orders a curt "stay" before bustling to the other side of the room.

Sheds his presence like snakes shed skin.

Naruto cleans his food-smeared face on his shirt.

He has a small table to himself. As the only person who sits there day after day, he may well as carved his name onto it. The children slip haphazardly next to one other on long benches that stretch all the way across the mess hall. They tease and elbow their neighbours, talking and laughing with their backs to him. When they see him watching, they quickly turn away, whispering rapidly into each other's ears about the boy in the corner. They're curious and scared. When he gets too close to them, their words stutter and grind to a halt, tapering off into a fearful silence.

The matron warns anyone who dares to approach him with words and broom-handles and fists. There was only ever one child brave enough to talk to him – she'd said to him a sum total of three words ("Hi, I'm Tenten.") before she was caught.

It got her ten lashes.

Naruto had been horrified.

The girl had enough self-preservation instincts to not try it again. In fact, nobody tried again.

He is booted out of the orphanage first thing after breakfast and does his own thing until she grudgingly lets him back in a couple of hours after sundown. She greets him with scowls – an expression he gladly returns. He doesn't like it there either and likes her even less than she is fond of him. He knows that he's not welcome but he has got nowhere else to go. Even the closet is better than the alleyways at night. The many times he doesn't return at all, most likely due to a beating, she expends no effort to find him.

On nights like those, if he's still awake, he crawls painfully into the nearest shelter he can find. A nook in the wall, a covered alley, a cardboard box, a metal dumpster. The winter beatings are especially bad; not because of the beating itself (that remains the same, the poles and knives and flame and fists and feet), but because of the coldness afterward. He watches his skin turn blue and feels his blood running like ice. His breaths are quiet gasps where no one but himself can hear. Only that hot pool of something in his stomach seems ambivalent to the cold, giving enough measure of strength to his battered limbs for him to find and collapse in a barely adequate spot to eke the night through.

If he's not conscious by the end of the beating, he wakes up in the morning where the villagers leave him. All the bruises and burns and cuts are gone as if they were never there. Deep, weeping gashes are faint lines in his flesh, delicately scabbed over. Bones split cleanly in two are hairline fractures and phantoms of pain echo where fractures previously existed. It makes him shiver – he knows of no other who heals as fast as he does. But there's only blood, artlessly splashed and dried around him, the cold metallic stench of it in his nose. And the memory.

At times, an old man comes to visit. Not regularly, though. Naruto usually sees him a couple of weeks apart and, on the rare occasion, two weeks in a row. However, the old man seems pretty busy most of the time. He's always wearing these important-looking robes and wearing that funny hat of his. Judging from all the adults' reactions, this is of some significance. The matron falls over herself trying to please the old man, "Hokage-sama!" she calls him. He hates watching her like that; he cannot believe how falsely she acts, her subservient demeanour, all her kow-towing.

Her smile makes him want to retch.

Somehow, the matron knows what day the old man will visit and makes everyone tidy up their rooms and clean the kitchen and do all their laundry. He gets to wear nicer clothes for a single day; a shirt that fit, trousers with no holes, and even a pair of worn boots. He gets a scrub in the tub (with the condition that he draws and heats his own water, of course – the showers are too good a luxury for him) and a not-so-much-better bowl of slop to eat. He gets stuffed into another boy's room, bigger and cleaner than his closet by far. The matron always squeezes into her best purple dress and slathers something over her face, altogether affecting the look of an extra fat and pasty pig.

When the old man sweeps into the orphanage, hat and smile in place, Naruto feels happy. He never fails to ask him how he's feeling; if he's well, what has he been doing, is he getting along with the other children. Like there's some value to be found in his answers. The first time the old man had questioned him, he had frowned, rubbing his stomach from hunger, pointing at the other kids and then at himself, trying to ask the old man why they refused to play with him. All he got from that was a sad look and a "There, there, Naruto. I am sure that they will agree to play with you if you keep on trying to ask. It might take a little more time, though."

The deep furrow between the old man's eyebrows told a different story.

He'd stood around the corner after the old man told him to go back to his room. He had tried to take shallow breaths so that nobody would hear him there. He had taken off the boots that he usually never wore so that his feet wouldn't clunk with his every step. He peered around the edge of the wall and found the matron and the old man in a very serious discussion down at the other end of the hallway. Though the two were keeping it quiet enough that he couldn't distinguish all of what they were talking about, he had a pair of fully functioning eyes. He'd watched as the matron nodded and became progressively tenser and more downtrodden while the old man looked increasingly disappointed and angry.

The following day, things had gone back to normal, but with the matron having twice as many bones to pick with Naruto. The livid glint in her eyes had been back with a vengeance after being forcibly suppressed. He'd been given a much harsher beating compared to the standard and was fed even less (in other words, nothing at all).

From then on, smiles had been the only answers that he'd given in response to the old man's questions.

Nevertheless, the good days are the days when the old man comes to visit. He is the only one who pays any attention to him, who looks upon him without those eyes that seem to stare straight through him to see something entirely, fearsomely different. There's no wariness that crawls upon his skin, no loathing or disgust or skittish expectation. The old man looks directly into his eyes, smiles and talks and ruffles his hair. He doesn't touch him as if he's suffering a contagious disease. The old man only ever sees Naruto – and that's wondrous. Dangerous (only ever for himself), because it compels him to add yet another thing to the short list of things that he wants, because this kind of attention, this kind of acknowledgement, may be something impossible to get.

He likes it (too much) when the old man comes to visit. When he's walking alongside the old man, hand clutching tightly onto the soft fabric of his robes, the people in the streets stare less, averting their gazes from his skinny form. He gets to eat food that isn't breakfast slop and none of the merchants or shopkeepers dares to give him kicks on the side, nor stop the old man from purchasing their wares. He doesn't feel obligated to bow his head in imagined shame, to slouch from an invisible weight, to slink away into the shadows where no one will need to see his face. And though he understands that he juts out in some unfathomable way, as long as their eyes aren't pinned on him, it is easier to pretend. There's also the shield that comes in the form of the old man, who shoots warnings from his beneath his brows.

Naruto decides that he likes the feeling of being protected.

On other days, when the old man doesn't visit, there is the usual routine that he follows. When he is thrown out of the orphanage after breakfast, he walks around the village for the day and does whatever suits his fancy. He doesn't really know anyone and the other children hold him in disdain. Word spreads quickly and children can be unconsciously cruel. Sometimes he watches different playgrounds from behind the trees lining their borders, carefully memorising the games the other children had played so that he could change them and play them by himself later on.

Other times, he would wander the streets, as quickly and quietly as he could. It was like another game: to keep from being seen by anyone; ducking behind food stalls, shrinking into shadows, traipsing through factories where he shouldn't be just to give himself an extra challenge. He was pretty good at that and the couple of times that he'd been spotted, well, those stiff louts had been too slow to chase him down. What he liked the most, though, was venturing through Konoha's extensive forests. There were rivers and streams that criss-crossed the forests frequently enough to ensure that he hardly ever went thirsty on his long expeditions. Countless hours spent between the towering trees, away from unfeeling hands and hateful eyes, made the forests more of a home than the village itself.

Head resting on his hands, eyes closed, back against a sturdy tree trunk, he would while the hours away listening to the creaking of tree-branches, the chirping of birds, the chattering squirrels, the far-off growling of the occasional tiger protecting its territory. Once or twice, warm scales would curl around his legs, forked tongues flickering lightly over his skin. The first time, he had startled, drawing a protesting hiss from the serpent, not to mention the nasty bite. It was the first time he'd felt the least bit ill, being confined to his lonely closet and threadbare sheets for a whole day before he recovered. Since then, he'd learnt to stay still while the snakes rested lightly on his skin, sinewy bodies twining comfortably around his thin limbs. His desire for company was satisfied by the array of strangely intelligent creatures who resided in the forest. After all, it wasn't an unnatural reaction to seek an escape from the children who shunned him.

That sensation, that feeling of being immaterial and unwanted – Naruto would never miss that feeling.

He loves listening to the multitude of sounds in the forest; there's no noisy chattering like in the orphanage or in the Konoha markets, just the simple presence of nature and its gifts. Though the village has its many charms too – the liquid drops on damp wood, the cranking of weathered wheels on crusty dirt roads, the crooning of wind pipes, all the manufactured, man-made noises jostling for his attention. There's a beauty in the contrast. When he wakes in the black and musty confines of his closet, there is the sound of his breathing. He listens, carefully, wonderfully alert to the soft inhale and exhale of air. If he concentrates hard enough, with no interruptions in the form of like-heighted girls and towering boys, there starts a tingling, burning kind of feeling in his ears. His hearing sharpens, almost magically.

Then, close to home, he hears the ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum beat of his heart. The steady rhythm of the organ is reassuring, familiar. He can imagine the red and the life rushing impatiently through his body with every beat. When he holds his breath, he can hear it speed up from a lazy, leisurely tempo to something more thrilling. It gets faster, and faster and faster still until it races a furious race through his blood-vessels, pounding, operating frantically in his chest until he can hold it in no more, letting it all out in a whoosh of hot air, eyes gleaming in wonder.

Comfortable, at peace.

And when the pitch world outside his closet tugs at his toes and carries cricket-chirps to his ears, Naruto's heart jump-starts and his hand pushes open the door. He could never resist the outside, the cool feeling of moonshine kissing skin and the wind blowing daringly through his hair. It is an open place free of the confining air of a closed-in space. When he sneaks/bursts into the night, it's like coming home to a welcoming embrace – or, at least, that's what he imagines it to be. He goes to the playground and sits on the swing because he can; his feet swishing below him as he listens to the owls hooting, the buzzing of electric street-lights and the rustling of dry leaves.

In those fleeting moments, he almost believes that the world is built for him and him alone.

He adores other things too; like the sounds made when there are rips and jagged corners lining the stormy skies. When thunder walks among the living, Naruto can never ignore the shiver of anticipation that steals down his back. He feels edgy, like he is standing on a cliff wall suspended high over churning waters. Veins pulsing against his skin, barely constrained energy thrumming impatiently. The muggy weather before a storm would envelop his senses until the very moment the heavens poured out their troubles onto the world. Clothes drenched, leaping outside the restrictive spaces and rimmed hallways in the orphanage, splashing dirt-streaked rainwater, his steps pound loudly (audaciously) against the ground. His cautious, silent walk degenerates (evolves) into the confident, loud bounding of a boy thirsting for freedom.

Storms never fail to thrill his senses – give him a sense of life that his everyday routine didn't often provide. Being out in the wide open expanse – being lost, wet and enviably alive in the maze-like red-light district of Konoha's back-alleys – it is a feeling he never wants to relinquish. It is something solely for himself. If selfishness is a vice, as the old man sometimes says, then he resolves to keep sinning unapologetically for the rest of his life. In a place empty of people, with rain pelting down, he feels happier than when the sun beams down on his head for all to see. It is strange, but nobody had ever accused Naruto of normalcy.

Tracking mud-stains back into the orphanage, trousers proudly splattered with the evidence of his personal battles with puddles that went up to his chin, an open rebellion and private form of revenge against the nasty matron. Even if he is always the one made to mop up the floor the next morning, the apoplectic expression overrunning her face the moment he saunters his way into her vision makes everything worth it. The matron had given up on attempting to stop him after the first few months of him successfully avoiding her punishment (death by way of broom would be too humiliating).

He equates his utter, indisputable triumph with the furious snarl that escapes her control before she strangles it to death in the back of her throat.

The other children would always give him those looks when he purposely worked her into a towering rage. The mix of _is he crazy, what he do that for _and _he deserves what he gets. _They were all too cowed by her to appreciate wasn't as if she'd ever taught him anything anyway, not that he wants to learn anything from her. She didn't even bother to inform him of, let alone help him with his disability – his utter incapability when it came to communicating with words like everyone else.

It had taken him some time before he'd noticed. There wasn't any particular reason for him to open his mouth to talk in the way the other children talked. In the beginning, he was content to simply observe the many and varied sounds that people like him used to communicate with others. There were patterns in their speech – certain sounds repeated, certain words emphasized, speech traded with a smile (whether or not it was genuine was a whole other issue) or a frown. Sounds that came together, danced in your mouth, slithered out smoothly or were barked out abruptly, noises that broke apart; they were akin to pieces that, one by one, fit into a jigsaw puzzle, as Naruto made connection after connection. He would memorise the sound – take care to pay attention to where, when and how other people used it. It had taken him a long time to understand the more complicated stuff, despite picking it up more easily after the first few months he'd started.

It had taken him being pushed into sand-pits, punched by taller kids for his intense staring, at one time no less than two months of continuous latrine duty and many hisses of not-nice words (even if he couldn't understand, the look on their faces said it all) until he was ready to try it out for himself. He had finally deemed himself good enough so as to not completely mangle or disgrace the language. It had been one of the most exciting moments of his life, Naruto recalled. He'd stood in front of the chipped bathroom mirror, locking himself inside the boys' lavatory.

It was going to be amazing, he knew it. He had studied those sounds for so long and it had finally reached the time for him to reap the rewards of his hard work.

Naruto had opened his mouth, like all the other children and adults he had seen, and…

nothing.

He had blinked, and then thought: _Oh well, failing on the first try is pretty common_.

The second time, he makes sure to curl his tongue around while forcing air from his lungs, through his throat and out of his mouth.

Still nothing.

Bewildered, Naruto had tried again and again, each time resulting in failure. No noise – not a single groan or faint warble of sound had emerged from his mouth. That day, unhappy and unsettled, he'd concluded that the talking thing was actually harder than it seemed. So he'd kept on trying – every day, over and over in the confines of his closet. Frustration had bunched around him like a cloak, the ball of hot disappointment in his chest growing with his every failure.

Every time there came the thought that _yes, today is the day I will have speech in my grasp_.

But Naruto learns that hope is cruel. And that for all his trying, it's a futile struggle.

"Mute," he hears them mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, satisfaction in their flinty-eyed gazes. "Seeing it is bad enough, good thing we don't have to hear its lies."

_It_, not _him_.

Mute – a bad word; a sad word.

He has a hunch, but he still wants to confirm it with the old man. It takes Naruto a while to get it across to him but when he finally does, angry finger stabbing at his own throat in askance, the old man's face crumbles. A withered hand brushes his aside to rest gently at his throat before the word comes.

Softly, reluctantly: "mute".

He stills at the regretful acknowledgement in the old man's voice.

"I think you already understand enough to know what that means if you're poking at your own throat Naruto."

A resigned nod and that was the end of it.

Another lesson learned: sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you'll fail.

It is after this greatest disappointment of Naruto's young life that the old man takes him to Ichiraku's Ramen Stand for the first time. The warmth of it the little stand is almost irresistible; so much so that he wants to shy away from the place. Survival instincts run deep.

The aroma of broth, rich and mouth-watering, almost seems like heaven. The stand is small, worn and comfortable seats beckoning for someone to warm them. There's the clattering of activity in the kitchen; pots and pans clanging, perhaps being washed, lids rattling under the pressure of steam, noisy footsteps dancing around all the equipment and voices. Naruto makes out the presence of two people – a girl and an older man, probably a relative. His feet lag the closer he gets, a reluctance born from rejection. The old man has his hand firmly in his grasp, though, and refuses to let him go as they enter the tiny establishment. He barely gathers enough courage to lift his eyes from the ground to look at the girl over the counter. She's pretty, with long black hair and friendly eyes, but he doesn't really expect anything – people's faces never fail to change when their eyes sweep over him.

"Good afternoon, Hokage-sama!" She greets, all smiles as she wipes down the counter-top. Naruto shrinks behind the old man, hoping to go unseen for as long as possible.

"Ah, Ayame, how are you on this fine day, my dear?"

"I'm doing pretty well, myself. Can I get you anything?"

The old man chuckles, shifting aside to reveal Naruto's silent (hiding) form. He almost cringes, but he doesn't want to disappoint the old man. He doesn't have to run away. He doesn't have to –

"I hope it won't trouble you to get the both of us some of that delicious Ichiraku's ramen Teuchi-san's cooking in the back?"

Naruto feels a little light-headed. It registers to him that he's been holding his breath.

"Oh! No, no – that's no trouble at all!"

The urge to hunch his back is almost overwhelming and he desperately struggles to pull his shoulders back. There's no reason to be ashamed. The tension is thrumming through him, plucking at his frayed nerves. It's like he's being put on display; no matter how cheaply he is priced, no one would ever lack for want of him. Less than worthless.

"I can't believe I missed him hiding there. Please excuse my inattentiveness, Hokage-sama!"

She's properly apologetic, but her voice still contains that undertone of cheerfulness. She sounds a little strange; different from the voices that he hears every day. He's discomforted by it and is tempted to fidget. His dirty bangs are drooping in front of his face, preventing the girl from getting a good look at him. That's the only reason, the only reason –

"Hello, little boy. Why don't you come closer – don't be shy. I won't bite… unless you want me to!"

The girl is… giggling. How bizarre; was she just trying to tease him? He prepares to brace himself before catching sight of the old man's twinkling eyes. That's right – does this different tone of voice make for a different kind of teasing? Without the sharp sticks and rough stones, the figures encircling him, eyeing him like predators. It's… friendly?

Surprise jolts his head up, bangs parting, drifting to hang by the sides of his face. Instantly, he feels the lash of self-reproach. Why did he have to look up? He'd ruined it. It could have lasted a little longer, at least. Just a moment longer would have been fine. Naruto readies himself for the girl's reaction. He can almost imagine it – the alarmed light of recognition, lips thinning into a straight line, eyes narrowing with repulsion, the stiff set of the shoulders, whether due to fear or loathing… the inevitability of it all…

A warm hand on his head startles him; too small and not firm enough to be the old man's. There's hesitation when he glances forward. There's a white apron, stained in places, and long black hair escaping a messy bun. The girl (Ayame) has crouched in front of him, leaving less than a metre between them. That someone would willingly get so close… Now, her lips are curving up to smile – at him? But –

She's ruffling his hair now, laughing softly. Her eyes are brown.

Doesn't she realise who he is? What everyone thinks of him? Isn't she afraid of him? Where's the hate? These kinds of things don't happen, least of all to him. This isn't right, isn't normal, isn't within the realms of possibility.

"Ayame, I'd like you to meet Uzumaki Naruto."

He waits for it, all dread and expectation. The muted recoil. The draw-back. The flinch that is almost a reflex for everyone in the village who knows who he is. And it goes without saying that everyone knows Uzumaki Naruto.

"Naruto?"

He can almost see it clicking. The name with the face with the hostility that all the older kids and adults have. The links are being drawn as clear as glass and he can predict what will happen. He squashes all that hope down because it'll only lead to disappointment. And why should this girl be any different? There are plenty of people who haven't instantly connected his face with who he is, what they think he is. It's just taking this one longer – _much longer_, that hopeful voice whispers before he crushes it again.

She's still so close, crouched before him unwaveringly when she says it: "It's nice to meet you, Uzumaki Naruto."

There's a moment when all his higher functions stop working. The world seems to halt for a second, stuttering into focus and out of focus so sharply he feels dizzy. Sound rushes by his ears and it's like he's hearing everything through marbled glass. Wind curls around his bangs. He's sure that nothing (everything) is broken. Because she knows – _knows, knows, knows _– who he is, what he is, what everybody says he is, and yet… there's nothing but lightness and happiness and truth in the way she says it. No guile. No trickery. No lies in her eyes just because of the old man.

Here's someone who says his name like it is something to be treasured. Held onto. Something of his own that gives him an identity and another kind of recognition. Something more than a bitter memento of his deceased parents.

"Did you know that 'naruto' is a kind of ramen topping?" Ayame gives him a cheeky smile that pierces the clouds, radiant and unmarred. "Maybe you and ramen are destined to be, Naruto-kun!"

And suddenly, there's a meaning to his name now; one associated with a food item he's never tasted and a girl who holds out her hand. There's enough (incredulous, ridiculous) disbelief to colour the sky with it.

He still feels light-headed. He is in an un-reality, ensconced in warmth and laughter and coaxing words. A place where there are people who can like him, where they treat him like a normal person, where they joke with him, give him hugs, feed him delicious, unspoiled food. A place where his mouth doesn't stay in a straight line as it always does; where it is compelled, helplessly, magnetically, to curve up, copying the mouths of the girl and the not-as-old man banging pots behind the countertop. This magnificent feeling, it chases away the weight; that pressing, constricting sensation lightens and goes away while he is with them.

Even if he's only kidding himself, even if everything is a wishful dream, Naruto wants this to last for as long as possible. For just a moment longer, he wants to stay in this place where ramen is belonging and a girl gifts hope with warm brown eyes.

And when the waking dream finally ends, there is this ache that begins deep in his chest. Ayame waves and calls for him to come back any time and his eyes water a little. The old man drops him off in front of the orphanage, though it's not yet dark enough for the piggy matron to let him in. Now that he's apart from all the nice people, he wanders away to the Hokage Mountain, breath coming out in pants when he arrives at the top, sweaty and dirty with the ground's dust.

He settles himself between the spikes of the Yondaime's head to watch the sun set. The village is spread out before him, lights dotting the winding streets and illuminating the sprawl of buildings. Noise finds its way to him – voices and barking and clanging all melding into one living entity. The vast forests lining Konoha cradle the Leaf Village within their embrace. The stone lays cool and rough beneath his hands and bare feet.

When the sun is almost completely swallowed by the edge of the land, the sky looks like it's drowning in fire. The edges of the glowing orb waver, as molten fluid is seen through water. Naruto stays until he no longer feels like crying.

* * *

**A/N: Finally the long-awaited first chapter of my story. Dun dun dun! I didn't think I would ever update at the rate I was going – don't know about you readers. I'll try to keep it up, though – I'd hate to stop writing this when I've actually posted two parts I'm mostly satisfied with. **

**Hope you all like it! Please do review and give me your opinions, it's very much appreciated. **

**Until next time!**


End file.
